


No Name Under Heaven

by xahra99



Series: Crusade [18]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Middle Ages, Middle East, Post-Canon, Secret Identity, Secret Identity Fail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 16:00:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18759685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xahra99/pseuds/xahra99
Summary: Malik's sorta-but-not-quite-adoptive son tries to impress him. It goes badly. A tale of the Assassins.





	No Name Under Heaven

No Name Under Heaven

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

"Salvation is found in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given among men by which we must be saved."

Acts 4:12

 

_Masyaf, 1199_

Marîd took the stairs two at a time. The soles of his boots rang on the stone and echoed down the tower’s spiral staircase. He’d spent the morning training, and his arms and legs burned with a deep, pleasant ache. It felt good to run. He wished he could outpace all his problems so easily.

Marîd climbed the stairs until only sky showed through the arrow-slits and went down a short corridor lined with identical doors. He stopped at the second door on the right, knocked, and waited. The sound of crumpling paper came from inside, and Malik called “Come in!”

Malik sounded angry, but Marîd opened the door anyway. Malik was always angry about something these days. If he waited for his mentor’s mood to change, he could be waiting a long time.

The room inside was small, made smaller by a litter of half-packed bags, half-scraped hides, bundles of reeds, feather quills, rolls of parchment, paint-pots, a pouch of coins and a tortoiseshell kitten curled up sound asleep on a sheepskin. Marîd couldn’t tell from the clutter if Malik was packing or unpacking. He knew it could be either. Since their return to Masyaf seven years ago, Malik had travelled ceaselessly throughout the Holy Land, teaching the Creed, fighting their enemies, and solving one crisis after another.

Malik looked up. “Marîd,” he said. “This isn’t a good time.”

“It never is.”                 

“You may be right.” Malik said ruefully. “What is it?”

“I need you to send me away,” Marîd said. The sentence had sounded better in his head, but such things often did.

Malik raised one eyebrow. “Go on.”

Marîd knew his mentor well enough to recognize his tactics. Malik was a persuasive talker but an excellent listener. Whenever he wanted to know something, he spoke very little. He just listened. He listened to everything, you said, no matter how ridiculous or petty. And he remembered it all.  Malik’s silences had been known to reduce Assassins to gibbering wrecks within minutes. But Marîd had known Malik for years, and he had no intention of falling into his mentor’s favourite trap.

The silence stretched out between them. Marîd, listening carefully to the scratch of Malik’s pen, heard shouting from the training ring, the hoarse bray of a donkey, and high above it all an eagle’s cry. Eventually Malik lowered his pen and acknowledged Marîd’s strategy with a roll of his eyes. His one good hand was smudged with ink.  “You must have a reason for this.”

“I told you,” Marîd said. “I need to leave Masyaf.”

Malik’s eyebrows met in a scowl. “And you think I can help?”

“I know you can.”

“Why? I don’t decide where you go. No more than Abbas does, or Altaïr. We are Assassins. We go where we’re needed. Now you think you’re different. Why so?”

Marîd squirmed. “It’s not important. You don’t understand.”

“You’re right,” Malik said. “I don’t. Perhaps you should explain.”

Marîd sighed. He’d hoped to avoid explanations. He’d been a fool, to think that he could just ask Malik for another posting. That he’d agree. Malik never agreed with anyone about _anything_.

“I need a new start,” he said. “You could send me away. Change my name and assign me somewhere nobody would know.”

“Your name is good enough.”

 “That’s easy for you to say,” Marîd said. “Your name means ‘ _king of the sword’._ Mine means ‘ _sickness_ ’.”

“I thought it was good luck,” Malik said mildly.

“It is,” Marîd said. “In the Maghreb. Here, it’s just a strange name.”

Malik sighed. “You’ll be called far worse by those who hate us. This is about Hamza again. Isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Marîd said evenly.

“You’re an Assassin now. Deal with it.” Malik paused for a moment. “But be discreet. Don’t kill him.”

Marîd snorted despite himself. “I don’t think I could.”

“Oh, I don’t know. He’s weak on his return. But I didn’t tell you that.”

 “All right,” Marîd said, filing the information away for later. “I admit it. It’s Hamza. But it’s not _just_ Hamza.”

“Then what?”

Marîd shifted from foot to foot. Supple leather creaked around his ankles. “The other boys found out I used to be a Templar.”

Malik frowned. “Who told them?”

Marîd swallowed. “You did.”

His mentor’s frown deepened. “When?”

“In Jerusalem,” Marîd said. “You told those thieves we recruited that it didn’t matter where they came from. That Abbas used to be a blacksmith. That you were a shepherd. That I was a Templar.”

“I did.” Malik’s frown had progressed into a scowl. “But it’s true what I said. It doesn’t matter where you come from. It’s who you are that matters. Your origins shouldn’t cause a problem.”

“Well,” Marîd said, “they have.”

“I can guess,” Malik said grimly. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

An awkward silence fell. The tortoiseshell kitten woke up, yawned, sauntered silently across the desk, and fell asleep on Malik’s empty sleeve.  Marîd examined Malik’s face, gauging his mentor’s temperament. “Is that enough of an explanation for you?”

Malik nodded.

“Then send me away! There must be other missions far from here.”

Malik shook his head. “Not now.” He raised his hand, forestalling Marîd’s protestations. “There’s a lot happening in Masyaf this spring. I need men I can trust.”

“You said Assassins go where we’re needed. What if I’m needed somewhere else?”

“You’re needed _here_.”

Marîd knew his hopes were dead, but he couldn’t resist one last stab. “When you were my age-”

“When I was your age, I was serving a lie and too wrapped up in jealousy to see it,” Malik snapped. He finished his writing with a vicious stroke of his pen and scattered sand across the paper. “There’ll be time for you to travel later.”

Marîd caught himself reaching across the desk to roll the message for Malik. Irritated, he jammed his hand back into his robe. “When?”

“Later, Marîd.” Malik eased the sleeping kitten from his sleeve. “Have you forgotten what we fight for?”

Marîd could have recited the Creed in his sleep, “Peace, in all things. To end violence between men. To be kind and tolerant and keep an open mind.”

“What else?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

Malik shook his head. “You can’t end violence without finding peace within yourself. You doubt, Marîd. You hesitate and look to others when you should be confident. Stop distrusting yourself. Earn your rank. Solve your own problems. Show me that you can be trusted and that you can follow orders.”

This sounded more promising. “How do I do that?”

“Fetch Tazim from the caves and bring him to the square. You’ll need to be quick. The execution’s at midday.”

“Tazim?”

Malik looked chagrined. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”

Marîd shook his head. It wasn’t so much that he’d forgotten as that he’d never remembered in the first place, his own troubles excluding all other concerns. _That_ , he thought, _is probably against the Creed._

“What about you?” he asked Malik over his shoulder as he turned away. “Do you have peace?”

“Some days, yes,” said Malik. “Others, no. Now go, Marîd. No more questions.”

 

Marîd descended the tower with heavier steps. As he came down the last flight of stairs, he saw a white-robed figure silhouetted in the arched doorway. The bright midday sun bleached out the figure’s features, but Marîd did not have to see the Assassin’s face to recognize him.  He took a deep breath and ran towards the door, but the gate slammed shut as soon as he set foot in the hallway.

Marîd tried the door and was unsurprised to find it locked. He set his shoulder to the planks and shoved. The heavy door did not budge.

Marîd leant against the planks and considered his options. A locked door was a temporary delay for any Assassin. He could pick the lock or climb out a window and leave the door closed behind him. The window would be faster, and if Marîd left the door locked there was always the possibility that Malik or another senior Assassin would find out and punish Hamza for closing it. As he thought through his choices, he realised that there was a much higher chance that Malik would take his temper out on the first person who got in his way-and that person would probably be Marîd.  

Marîd sighed and set his hidden blade to the lock. A few minutes of painstaking work later, he was free.

He left the door open behind him and went out into the courtyard, where preparations were well under way for Tazim’s execution. There wasn’t much to see. Just a simple wooden platform, a pail of sand to cover up the blood and a donkey-cart waiting for the body. A few Assassins loitered in the shade cast by the walls; arms folded as they awaited the event.

Marîd searched for Hamza amongst that stern assembly. There was no sign of his rival or his coterie, and Marîd did not mourn their absence.  He was thoroughly tired of Hamza’s gang and their tricks. Hamza had always been jealous of Marîd’s imagined privileges. The attacks had only increased since the revelation of Marîd’s Templar history. He shook his head and went down to the caves to fetch Tazim.

The caves beneath Masyaf were older than the castle. The Assassins did not take prisoners or drink wine, so the caverns had seen little use for the last century. The staircase descended in a straight line, built for easy access rather than defence, with a slope cut in the centre to roll barrels. The stone-scented air cooled around Marîd as he descended. Oil lamps set into alcoves in the wall cast a dim light.

A guard waited for him at the bottom of the flight. “Come to fetch the prisoner?”

Marîd nodded. He hoped that Tazim wouldn’t put up a fight. The last thing he needed was something that would make him look less competent.

The guard pointed to one corner and handed Marîd a key. The cellar was large, and the oil lamps illuminated only part of the subterranean space. The cave smelled musty. Marîd’s boots echoed on the stone as he crossed the cellar, key in hand. Tazim was chained to a staple hammered into the rock. He didn’t move as Marîd approached.

Marîd nudged Tazim’s foot with the toe of his boot. “Get up,” he said.

Tazim raised his head. The Assassins were a small community, and everybody knew everyone else. Marîd remembered Tazim from when he’d first arrived at Masyaf. He’d been an Assassin already, hard in the way all Assassins were, but kind. Now his face was drawn and faded, his beard greying, as if his confinement had leached all the colour out of him.

“I know you,” he said. “You’re Malik’s boy.”

Marîd didn’t bother to correct him. He raised the key, but Tazim shifted so the lock to his manacles was out of Marîd’s reach. “Kind of your master to send his pup to deliver me to justice. Could he not come himself?”

Marîd stepped over the chained Assassin’s legs. “He’ll see you soon.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Tazim said.

Marîd crouched and fitted the key to the manacles. The chains were cold between his fingers and the lock was rusted from the damp cave air. He had to struggle to slide the key in. “What did you do?” he asked curiously, knowing that he shouldn’t.

Tazim’s mouth twisted. “Did you not attend the arraignment?”

Marîd shook his head. “I was away,” he said, wrenching at the chains. If the movement hurt Tazim, he showed no sign of pain.

The old Assassin’s voice was hoarse and rusty as the locks. “I sold secrets to the Templars. And I’m not the only one. There’s many here who think the Order’s heading down the wrong path. “

“Sold? What did they give you?”

“Money.” Tazim said bleakly.

“You sold us for _coin_?” Marîd said scornfully. The Brotherhood provided everything an Assassin could want. They had no need of more.

 “Not coin alone. Freedom.”

“Freedom?” Marîd forced the chains open at last. Metal clattered on the flagstones and echoed round the cave. “From what?”

“From your damned Creed,” Tazim hissed. “Peace through free will? Trusting townsfolk to do the right thing? That’s naïve. It doesn’t make sense. It’s not enough to set an example and live your life well. The Templars know the truth. We must force men to do what’s right.”

“What you did wasn’t right,” Marîd retorted. “How could you betray the Order, knowing what we fight for?”

“How could I forget?” Tazim rubbed his wrists where the manacles had galled him. “How can any man fight for peace? It makes no sense at all. Another two days-that’s all I needed.”

“Where were you going with your Templar friends?”

“The war lands to the west.” Tazim scowled at Marîd’s glare. “Why not? Anywhere’s better than Masyaf.” 

“Get up,” Marîd poked him with his foot. “No more talk.”

Tazim lurched to his feet. He swung at Marîd, but his blow was wild and poorly aimed and Marîd saw it coming. He ducked, grabbed Tazim’s wrist with one smooth motion and swung him into the wall. The he pulled the chains from the staple and locked the traitorous Assassin’s wrists behind his back.

“I’m not ready,” Tazim protested.

“That’s not your choice to make.”

Tazim caught at Marîd’s sleeve with his chained hands. Marîd jerked away, misinterpreting the gesture as an attempt to seize his hidden blade. Tazim turned and held up his chained hands. He placed his bare head next to Marîd’s hooded one and kept his voice low, too quiet to catch the echoes. “Listen. I can make a bargain. My life, in exchange for information.”

“What information?”

“Templar secrets,” Tazim whispered. From this angle, Marîd could see bruises on his neck. “In exchange for my life.”

Marîd shook his head. “I’ll need more than that.”

“I sent the Templars messages,” Tazim muttered, “One in winter. Another during thaw. Details of the castle’s weakness.”

“Masyaf isn’t weak.”

The older Assassin shot him a jaundiced glare, “Believe that if you like. I sent a last letter a moon hence, promising more details in return for my freedom. I’m due to meet them two days hence, in Safita. The bath-house, at midday. Tell your master, pup.”

Marîd was not in the mood to pass on Tazim’s messages. “What else?” He pushed Tazim towards the staircase, boots slipping on the stone as the older Assassin briefly resisted. “You can talk as we go.”

“You don’t understand,” Tazim said as he shuffled forwards. “They’ve never met me. They don’t know my face. You could send anyone. Learn Templar secrets. Surely that’s worth my life?”

Marîd made a non-committal noise, more from a desire to get the man up the stairs without a struggle than any real assent. He placed his hand between Tazim’s shoulder-blades to give the other Assassin some support. Tazim continued as they climbed the steps together, “So many things I told them. Most true, I think. The Templars’ aims are simple. Prosperity and peace, in return for control.” He glanced over his bony shoulder at Marîd. “Is that so wrong? At least they promise truthful answers-not more endless questions!”

He broke off as he heard the crowd murmuring outside the gates. The sound was quiet by city standards, but a hubbub by Assassin measures. “What!” he cried, voice cracking through split lips. “You promised, boy!”

Marîd kicked open the gate and pushed Tazim forwards. The Assassin staggered forwards into the waiting hands of two Assassin guards. The castle courtyard was crowded with men and women, with Assassin _fida’in_ and with all those who served the Creed in other ways. A row of children, excited or cowed according to their nature, sat at the very front of the crowd. They were young, but Marîd hadn’t been much older when he’d first seen a man die.

Marîd lingered on the edge of the crowd as the guards delivered Tazim to the scaffold. Altaïr waited at the front of the crowd, raised up slightly by the simple wooden platform. Malik stood behind him, his face stern. A solemn silence fell as Tazim climbed the steps.

“You stand accused of betraying our brotherhood,” Altaïr said in a quiet voice which nevertheless carried above the crowd. “Of sending information to our enemies. How do you answer to these claims?”

Marîd expected Tazim to beg or else recant, but Tazim only shook his head. “Curse you,” he growled.

“Do you repent?”

“Curse you,” Tazim repeated. He lowered his head and spat onto the boards. “Curse the whole lying damned lot of you!”

Altaïr regarded Tazim in silence. Then he unsheathed the blade at his belt. The guards pushed Tazim to his knees. The Assassin raised his head and gazed up at the sun with streaming eyes. Behind Tazim, the morning sunlight gleamed on a blade moving nearly too fast to see.

Tazim died with his eyes open. Marîd heard a soft thud as the head fell, followed a fraction of a second later by a heavier _thump_ as Tazim’s body toppled.

Altaïr raised his sword, and blood gleamed like rubies in the sun. “We only kill when we have to,” he said in his quiet, carrying voice. “But men cannot be told. They must be shown. So we kill traitors.  Not for opposing us. Not for questioning. We kill them for risking the lives of every man, woman, and child in this castle.” He flicked the blood from his blade and wiped the sword on a handful of wool before he sheathed the blade. “Nothing more.”

He turned away. The crowd waited until it became clear that he would say nothing more and filed away without fuss. Marîd lingered. He watched Altaïr and another Assassin-perhaps Farid, perhaps Abbas-drag the corpse onto the cart. Malik lifted the head by the hair and laid it on top of the body. A white-robed girl sprinkled sand over the gore as an Assassin fida’in led the donkey away through the gates. The cart clattered off, leaving a trail of blood behind it on the stones as it carried Tazim’s body towards an unmarked grave.

Marîd rubbed his arms. He could still feel the press of Tazim’s hand on his sleeve.

“Marîd?”

Marîd turned. He saw Hamza and his friends approaching with a sinking heart. The other Assassin had a panther’s stroll that Marîd envied. There was no room for evasion and Marîd refused to run, so he leaned against the sun-warmed stones and regarded them with the best imitation of Malik’s sardonic glare he could manage at short notice. He made his voice sound as bored as he could. “What are you doing here, Hamza?”

“Come to see the execution,” the other Assassin said brightly. “Always a pleasure to see Templars get what’s coming to them. It’s a shame the Master didn’t take longer over it. Still, we had a good vantage point.”

“Saw it all,” said another boy.

“Saw you with him,” Hamza agreed. “You Templars stick together.”

Marîd hackled. “Go fuck your camel, Hamza. I’m no more a Templar then you are.”

“You’d know more than me about camels,” Hamza said. “I hear they in the Maghreb they fuck nothing else.”

“You don’t know anything about the Maghreb,” Marîd said.

“I know they have camels. And Templars.” Hamza crooked an eyebrow. “What else is there?”

Marîd could have told Hamza about cities built from salt, caravans of gold, libraries full of rare books, and gardens in the desert, but he knew it would have been a waste of time. “You don’t know anything.”

Hamza shrugged. “It’s only strength that matters. Real Assassins kill people. No need for books.”

Marîd extended his left hand and raised two fingers in a Frankish insult to display his missing digit. “I am a real Assassin.”

“Prove that you can wield a blade,” Hamza said. “Maybe then I’ll stop mocking you.”

“I don’t have to prove anything!”

Hamza smiled. “Don’t you? Some speak of turning back the clock and taking the Order back to the old days. When everything really was permitted. When we didn’t waste our bread on useless mouths. When men were judged on the strength of their sword arms, and women weren’t Assassins.”

“When we served our greatest enemies?” Marîd raised one eyebrow in a gesture he’d copied from Malik.  

Hamza glared at him. “That sounds like something your mentor would say. Do you think only what he tells you?”  

 “At least I think,” Marîd snapped. 

 Hamza pushed Marîd back into the wall. “Watch where you tread, Maghrebi. Altaïr and his lackey won’t be in power much longer. You should choose another mentor.”

“I have a mentor,” Marîd snarled. “And you should watch your tongue.”

“Or what, Maghrebi? You’ll make me?” Hamza snorted. “Like to see you try.”   

Marîd buried his fist in Hamza’s belly. He knew as soon as he lashed out that he was making a mistake. Hamza folded with a grunt as Marîd’s fist connected, but he recovered quickly and charged Marîd like a bull. Marîd attempted to dodge Hamza as he had Tazim, but Hamza was much faster than a man weak from privation. His evasion meant that Hamza’s knee missed his groin but put Marîd’s chin on a collision course with Hamza’s fist. The blow stunned Marîd just long enough for Hamza to twist his right arm behind his back.

Marîd struggled, but it was no use. Hamza was built like Masyaf’s mountains, while Marîd had spent the first thirteen years of his life crossing deserts on a handful of dates and a flask of brackish water. He sought the fighting spirit of his fabled ancestors and failed miserably. He’d always suspected his uncle’s tales of fierce desert warriors were really just highly embroidered stories of one man stealing another’s camels.

“Watch out!” called one of Hamza’s friends. “Hamza! Someone’s coming,”

Hamza pressed Marîd’s face to the sun-warmed stone. “Say you’re a Templar!”

“You know I’m not!”

“Say it!”

Marîd gasped a curse. Hamza grunted and increased the pressure. Marîd yelped as the bones of his elbow grated. “Yes! It’s true! I was a Templar when I was a child!”

Hamza slackened his grip. Marîd knew he should keep silent, but his tongue took on a life of its own, “I _chose_ to be an Assassin. You became one because it was _easy_.”

Hamza growled and wrenched Marîd’s wrist up between his shoulders. Pain blazed to life along each joint of his arm as dazzling sparks spun before his eyes, Marîd reached backwards with his free hand and tried to punch Hamza, but his fist met nothing but fresh air.

A cool new voice cut in. “What’s going on?”

Hamza released Marîd. “Nothing, _dai,_ ” he said.

Marîd turned slowly, rubbing his arm. His heart sank as he saw _dai_ Husain staring down at them. _Dai_ Husain was taller than Hamza and skinny as a spear-shaft. It was rumoured that he could put a knife through a man’s eye at thirty paces.

_Dai_ Husain cocked an eyebrow. “Marîd?”

Marîd did not need Hamza’s glare to remind him he’d only suffer if he tried to seek revenge. “Nothing, _dai_.”

“Glad to hear it,” _dai_ Husain said. “Now get to work.”

The young Assassins nodded as a unit. “Yes, _dai_.”

As they walked away Hamza jeered, “Remember what I said, Maghrebi.”

Marîd repeated the Frankish salute behind his back, where _dai_ Husain couldn’t see. Every joint of his arm ached, and his cheek smarted from being pressed against the wall. He didn’t want to return to Malik so soon, but he knew his mentor would be intrigued by Tazim’s offer. He wondered if he should have spoken to Malik before Tazim’s execution. Malik might have prevented the old Assassin’s execution, but Marîd doubted it. Assassins did not bargain. The only mercy they offered was a sharp blade and a swift death.

Marîd climbed the tower and walked into Malik’s chamber without knocking, trusting to his footsteps to announce him. The door was unlocked, but the room was empty. Malik had gone.

Marîd hesitated, considering his next move. He righted a couple of paint pots and salvaged a throwing knife from the clutter. The tortoiseshell kitten sauntered across the desk, coins clinking beneath her tiny paws, and rubbed her head delicately along Marîd’s arm. Marîd petted her absently. Then he searched amongst the mess for pen and paper. He cut several fresh reed pens with the blade of his knife and left them there for Malik, knowing his mentor struggled to trim reeds one-handed. Then he mixed water with a block of ink and filled his pen.

He had intended to leave a note for Malik detailing both Tazim’s news and Hamza’s insults, but the more he considered Hamza’s words, the more certain he was that Malik already knew of the dissent. Assassins were men, and men talked. If they were wise, they did it where they thought Malik couldn’t hear them.  But Malik had many ways of gathering information.

_“There’s a lot happening in Masyaf this spring,”_ Malik had said. “ _I need men I can trust.”_

Marîd hoped Malik and Altaïr already had plans to suppress Hamza’s rebellion. He had tasted Templar life. He had no desire to see a world where Hamza would be worth more than he was, where his friend Asma would be relegated to washing clothes and birthing babies and no peasant had the chance to become anything more. He wanted to prove Hamza wrong with every fibre of his body. Hamza had challenged him to prove he was an Assassin. What better way than to infiltrate Tazim’s Templar brotherhood?

Marîd didn’t give himself a chance to consider the idea for long. He found a pouch of coins in the mess and secured the bag in his sash before he scribbled a note to Malik. He tucked the paper between an atlas and a freshly scraped hide and scattered the reed pens over the top. The longer it took Malik to discover the note, the longer Marîd had to put his plan into practice before Malik realized where he’d gone.

Marîd adjusted the note so that one creased corner poked out from below the atlas scroll. Then he went down to the stables and saddled a horse. An hour later he was on his way to Safita, riding down the familiar road with unfamiliar misgivings.

Marîd’s horse snorted as it caught his apprehension. Marîd dug his heels into his mount’s barrel. The mare gathered herself and broke into a gallop. She had a jolting gait. Marîd crouched over her neck, his teeth clicking together with every step. He didn’t think. He just rode.

It was almost a relief.

The journey to Safita took a day and a half. Marîd had ridden the road many times, always stopping at Assassin safehouses in Draykish or Srayghes.  This time he wished to pass unnoticed, so nightfall found him some way from the path. He tied short hobbles on the mare, wrapped himself in his saddlecloth, and slept badly.

He woke, or at least rolled up his bedroll, at dawn, and arrived at Safita in time for morning prayers. The city walls surrounded the small town like a pair of encircling arms. The Crusader castle’s tall white tower squatted on the hill above the city, gleaming and alien. A bell tolled the hour as Marîd rode up the valley towards the town. Safita remained under Crusader control, but the town was close to Masyaf. The city had always been as free from Templars as the Assassins could keep it.

Marîd stopped outside the city and paid a few coins to have his mare stabled at one of the establishments outside the gates. The small Assassin A branded on the inside of the mare’s left hind hoof would ensure the mare found her way back to Masyaf even if Marîd did not. He left his red sash and belt in the mare’s saddlebags, because there was no point in asking for trouble.

Marîd drew up his hood to conceal his face and joined the crowds entering the city. It was still early, so most of the crowd were farmers on their way into the city to sell their produce. Heavily laden mules cut purposeful lines through the crowds and disappeared into the alleyways with loads of limp vegetables, dates, jars of water, or copper pots. Goats meandered through the throng and ate anything they could reach.  A woman next to Marîd lowered her toddler to the ground, and the child plucked at Marîd’s robe with sticky hands.

Marîd wondered how many of the crowd were Templars.

He had never been good with the Eagle’s vision.  Some Assassins possessed the ability to sense friend from foe with a single glance. When Marîd unfocused his eyes, he saw the crowd through a milky grey lens which he knew from experience would give him a migraine in minutes. He caught flashes of blue and red but saw nothing to focus on. He decided the toddlers were probably innocent. Not even the Assassins recruited babes in the cradle.

He blinked the sight away and entered the city. Safita was a melting pot, half way between the mountains and the sea. From the tower the Crusaders could sweep their eyes across the entire Holy Land, from the waves beating against the black fortress of Marqab to the massive fortress of Kerak. The sunburned Frankish guards glared at him no worse than they glared at everybody.

Marîd was just about to congratulate himself on his stealth when he caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. He tensed, poised to run. The shoppers around him moved on at a leisurely stroll, chatting as they went from stall to stall. Marîd glanced at the crowds and forced himself to relax. Running would be the worst thing he could do.

He turned his back on the rooftops as if he had noticed nothing and went to examine a pile of fruit heaped on a stall. The bright smell of oranges filled his nostrils. He saw no surreptitious figures in his side-long gaze, but pigeons fluttered from a roof where no cat prowled, and a flash of white vanished behind a chimney.

So. They were after him.

Marîd bought a towel and scrub mitt from one of the small booths that lined the roadway and tucked both items in his sleeve. As he passed beneath an awning that he hoped would hide him from the gaze of any watching Assassins he draped the towel across his head. Passing beneath another row of awnings, he took a left turn, then a sharp right and joined a crowd of Christian pilgrims on their way to the small city’s church. The Christians wore robes of undyed wool and smelt as if the wool hadn’t even been washed.  Around them, Frankish soldiers mingled with cultured Persians, and warlike Kurdish mercenaries jostled highland shepherds from the peaks of the Jebel Ansariyah. There were plenty of people who looked like Marîd. He found it easy to slip away in the crowds.

He left the Christians behind in the souk. Then he went inside a carpet shop and passed a few moments haggling over a cup of too-sweet tea for a rug he had no intention of buying. When he was sure he had eluded any signs of pursuit he made his excuses and went to find the city’s bath-house.  Whatever awaited, he might as well meet it clean.

Safita’s baths were small enough that they had separate hours for men and women instead of separate suites. The tiles at the entrance were chipped and yellowed, and the light inside was dim. Marîd liked the place. It reminded him of a hundred greasy bathhouses he’d visited with his uncle in sub-Saharan towns, a shabby, comfortable building far from the Assassins’ spartan hammam.

Marîd left his clothes behind the counter. He stripped and knelt beneath a faucet to scrub himself clean. The water was lukewarm, with a faint salty tang that reminded him of blood. It occurred to him that this might be his last day on earth. What happened if the Templars saw through his façade?

He shrugged and went into the steam room to sweat away his doubts. Neither the steam room nor the room of dry heat were particularly good meeting places. Marîd finally selected the tepidarium as an uninspired but comfortable choice and settled down on a bench to wait.

Without midday prayers to mark the hours he had no way to mark the time. He clutched his scrub mitt, into which he had surreptitiously tucked a small knife, and watched the other bathers as condensation trickled down the slick tiles.

After a while a market trader smelling fragrantly of oranges came in and sat down beside him. Marîd wondered if he was Tazim’s contact, but the merchant rose and went to the steam room without saying anything. A few men came with their sons, bathed, and left hastily when a pair of Franks entered. Brawny, battle-scarred, and covered in reddish hair, the men reminded Marîd of the apes that lived high in the Atlas Mountains. They wore no towels. Marîd moved into a corner and tried hard not to stare as a bath attendant deftly deprived the Franks of all their body hair.

The process took some time. When the Franks finally left the bath attendant shook his head and began to mop the floor. Marîd waited, certain that the baths would close any moment.

“Those Franks,” the attendant complained, a low grumble that Marîd was only sure was directed at him because he was the only other person in the room, “They’re animals. I don’t know which are worse: those who never bathe or those who do. Mixing with those dogs makes my skin crawl. Hair everywhere. We had one man the other day, made me shave his lady’s private parts. In front of men.”

Marîd’s eyebrows crept towards the ceiling despite his best efforts. The bath attendant sat down next to him and wiped his brow. He was a fair-skinned, well-groomed man with impeccable hair and the cleanest fingernails Marîd had ever seen. Despite his professed detestation of the Frankish soldiers, he could have been a suntanned Frank himself, or an Arab fathered by some wealthy man’s Circassian slave. He seemed an unlikely Templar, but Marîd had been waiting long enough. It was time to gamble.

“May the Father of Understanding guide us,” he said, quietly enough that his words could have been taken for some obscure prayer. 

The bath attendant turned his head slowly towards Marîd. “Tazim?”

“Brother?”

“You came.”

“I did,” Marîd did his best to look both grim and competent, with, he felt, little success. He was glad the tiles were too dull to reflect his expression. He held out his right hand. The bath attendant reached out and clasped his palm. His grip was strong as an Assassin’s.

“Do you still think our cause is just?” he said, releasing Marîd’s hand.

Marîd nodded. “I do.”

“Are you prepared to die for it?”

“I am,” Marîd said, hoping his reticence would be mistaken for taciturnity. 

The attendant nodded. “Good,” he said. “My name’s Ammar. There’s no time to waste. Masyaf’s jackals will soon be on our heels. Come with me.”

Marîd picked up his scrub mitt and followed Ammar to the changing room. The Templar retrieved a bundle of clothes from behind the counter and dressed quickly. Marîd shrugged on his robe and strapped his hidden blade to his left wrist beneath his sleeve. He turned away for a second to tie his sash. In the same movement, he retrieved the hidden knife from his scrub mitt and tucked it into his robe. 

Ammar glanced over. “Are you ready?”

Marîd nodded. He raked a hand through his curly hair and stepped out into the cool spring sun at Ammar’s side. The Templar threaded his way confidently through the streets, ignoring the hawkers who accosted them.

“Where are we going?” Marîd asked.

Ammar gave him a look of faint amusement. “To the stables.”

“Where then?” Marîd scanned the rooftops. He saw no movement.

“You’ll find out later.”

Marîd frowned at Ammar’s evasion.  “I took a great risk to come here,” he said, borrowing his tone and speech from _dai_ Husain. “I think you owe me an answer.”

“Hush,” Ammar lowered his voice. “You’ve already been of assistance. It would be foolish of me not to acknowledge the debt we owe you. But this is no place to speak of such matters. The Assassins have spies everywhere.”

“Indeed,” Marîd fought to keep the irony from his voice.

“The sooner we are on horseback and away, the better. We’ll talk more later.”

Marîd nodded. He kept a watchful eye on the rooftops as he walked. His mind ran on ahead, pointing out problems with his plan with Malik’s most acerbic voice.

The first problem, of course, was that he didn’t _have_ a plan. _I should have sought out Tazim’s letters at Masyaf._ The messages might have been burned by Tazim or the Assassins, but if they remained, he didn’t doubt the Assassins would have kept them. Malik’s habit of collecting and retaining information was one of the reasons Masyaf’s library took up the castle’s entire ground floor. The letters would have been helpful, but Marîd didn’t have the letters.

_I must avoid betraying myself_ , he thought. _Discover where we are headed. Find out the Templars’ plan.  Deliver the information to Masyaf or travel back myself. Win the respect of the other Assassins._

It was a long list. Marîd had achieved none of his objectives by the time they reached the stables. Half a dozen horses rested hip-shot in the shade of a palm-leaf awning. Ammar handed some coins to the stable-hand, who unfastened the reins of a long-backed chestnut mare and a flea-bitten grey.

Ammar took the grey’s reins and swung himself up. Marîd flipped up the saddle-flap to check the chestnut’s girth. He was half-way through his task when he heard a sound on the roof and paused with one hand on the mare’s mane and the other on the saddle. He knew that noise. It was the sound of an Assassin recruit trying to be quiet and doing a poor job of it.

Marîd still hadn’t decided what he was going to do when Hamza dropped over the edge of the canopy and landed in the courtyard in a cloud of dust and palm-fronds. Ammar’s grey tossed up his head and shied away. Marîd’s mare, used to action or merely more phlegmatic, sidled back beneath the awning.

_Do your enemies strike when you’re ready?_ Malik said in Marîd’s head. _You must be ready._

Marîd rolled his eyes and went to confront Hamza. He knew he must act quickly. Should he confess to Hamza, perhaps team up against the Templar? Run him down? Ammar’s gelding looked fast; they might not catch him. Or should he continue his masquerade at the cost of Hamza’s life? He didn’t know. 

_You think too much,_ he chided himself.

Assassin training prized speed and accuracy more than anything else. Assassins were taught to strike immediately. Neither of them were doing a very good job of it. Hamza seemed as conflicted as Marîd. He wiped dust from his face and stared at Marîd as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes.

“Brother,” he said at last, “I was only teasing you about being a Templar. I didn’t think you’d really do it.”

Marîd shook his head, “Don’t call me brother.”

Hamza stepped in and caught at Marîd’s sleeve. “In God’s name, M-”

Marîd punched him.

It was a good punch, vertical with a with a balled fist, ending right on Hamza’s chin. The blow knocked Hamza back, but it didn’t quite knock him out. He staggered backwards, steadying himself with one hand on the rump of Marîd’s mare.

“Good,” Ammar said, reining back his grey. “Now kill him.”

Marîd blinked. Faking Templar beliefs was one thing, but murdering Hamza was a line he would not cross. He’d expected a meeting, something he could slip out of easily, then make his way back to Masyaf without being missed. He wished he hadn’t listened to Tazim.

Hamza staggered, grunted, and lunged at Marîd. Marîd slid aside and pulled the small knife from his sleeve. The blade gleamed in the sun like a crescent moon. He stepped forwards and hammered another blow into the back of Hamza’s neck, following that with a third when the other Assassin turned. That one connected hard, and Marîd kept on punching. He felt his knuckle pop on Hamza’s chin. The skin across his knuckles split as Hamza’s teeth crunched together. Marîd didn’t know how many blows he slammed into Hamza’s chin in those few moments. Four, maybe? Five? More?

Marîd stepped back, breathing heavily, and looked down at Hamza sprawled across the floor. Blood Hamza looked bad, but he didn’t look dead. His chest rose and fell painfully, and his wrist was bent as an odd angle. Long strings of blood gleamed in the dust around him.

Marîd licked his lips and brought the heel of his boot down on Hamza’s temple. He bent over the other Assassin’s prone form, a move which put his back to the watching Templar and raised his blade theatrically before plunging it into Hamza’s chest. Just as he brought the blade down Marîd flicked his wrist so that the hidden blade retracted back into his gauntlet as he pressed the blade in. The tip of his knife skated across Hamza’s ribs instead of sinking into his chest.

Blood stained Hamza’s Assassin whites. Marîd knew from experience that a little blood went a long way on undyed wool. Was there enough? Or too much? He couldn’t tell.

He held his breath and prayed Hamza didn’t move.

“Is he dead?” Ammar asked.

Marîd looked up, glad the Templar didn’t seem to have noticed that anything was wrong. “Yes,” he lied.

Ammar eyed Marîd for a moment, then jerked his chin at the unperturbed chestnut. “Good. Then let’s ride.”

Marîd glanced back at Hamza’s still form. He’d dreamed of beating Hamza for years, but as he stared at the Assassin’s body, he felt only doubt, regret, and fear. What if Hamza bled out before help arrived? What if he woke up, and shouted Marîd’s name? Worse, what if Marîd had killed him? The Assassins would never forgive Marîd, and Marîd would never forgive himself. Hamza had been a thorn in Marîd’s side most of his life, but he had always been around.

Marîd hoped his internal conflict didn’t show on his face. He untied the mare and swung up on her back. The mare leapt away like a deer and burst into a fast-paced gallop. Marîd crouched over her mane, flattening himself against her neck. The sudden wind whipped tears from his eyes as they left Safita behind.

They slowed to rest the horses when the sun had slipped down towards the horizon. Marîd reined in his mare and slid down from the saddle. His boots sank into sandy soil. The mare stretched out her neck and nibbled at the green blades that covered the ground with a faint haze.

“Swift work,” Ammar said approvingly as he eased his grey to a walk. “I didn’t think you’d do it.”

Marîd lifted his brows, hoping that he hadn’t been discovered. “Why not? I’m an Assassin. I can kill any foe you care to name.”

Ammar gave him a hard look. “That may not be necessary. We’re not killers by choice. We prefer persuasion. But some people can’t be persuaded.”

Marîd nodded. “I’ve met some,” he said, thinking of Malik. “But let’s not dress it up. You want control.”

“Look at the mess that fighting has made of this land,” The Templar slid down from his grey and waved his hand across the valley. “Someone has to take control. Control brings peace.”

Malik would have retorted that peace not freely chosen was worthless. Marîd tried not to answer, but it was clear the Templar expected a response, “This land’s not seen peace in my lifetime,” he said.

“Longer than that,” Ammar replied. “Listen. We don’t have time to discuss philosophy, but l think you do deserve some answers. We’re riding for Tartus.”

Marîd knew Tartus well. The Crusaders garrisoned there called the town Tortosa. The port city was a day’s ride west of Safita. Many ships docked there, so it was unlikely the town was their destination. “Where next?”

“You’ll learn that later,” Ammar shaded his eyes and leaned forwards to peer over the grey’s sparse mane. “What’s that?”

“It’s a caravan,” said Marîd, squinting at the ragged line of men and beasts threaded along the road.

Ammar pointed at the toiling figures. “Let’s join them. Those peasants will conceal us. The Assassins won’t find us there.”

Marîd rather doubted that. He swung himself up on the mare and followed Ammar’s grey down the valley. As they drew closer, the tiny figures resolved into a jumble of merchants and donkeys and ox-driven carts, shrouded in a pall of dust that would have been far worse in summer but was still thick enough to dry Marîd’s throat. 

The caravan master was a small man with dark-stained teeth from years of chewing _khat_. He was headed to Tartus himself, transporting provisions from the countryside to the Crusader port, and he was more than happy to have two more able men along. “The raiders have been bad this year,” he said, and sucked his teeth.

They slept by the merchant’s fire that night, guarded by a dozen mangy dogs as the horses cropped the grass nearby. The next morning, well before they reached the sea-port, the caravan straggled to a halt.

Marîd and Ammar, covered in dust at the rear of the line, exchanged glances. Marîd set heels to his horse and cantered up to the front of the caravan, ““What’s going on?”

The caravan-master spat into the dust. “There’s a checkpoint.”

“Whose?”

“God only knows. Templars, or the Ayyubids, or else some local Frankish lord. They all call it taxes, but if you ask me, it’s blatant extortion.”  He shrugged, “Not that anyone does.”

Marîd pulled his scarf across his face and trotted up the line. A small group of men loitered at the front of the line. They were shrouded against the cold spring air in layers of robes and bulky gloves. Their clothes held no crests or insignia, and they might have been loyal to half a dozen lords, but they didn’t seem to be charging any money. He spun his mare in the sand and rode back to Ammar, moving as quickly as he could but slowly enough that he would not attract attention. “There’s a checkpoint. We need to hide. They’re Assassins.”

The Templar raised one eyebrow. “How do you know?”

“They’re hiding blades beneath their robes,” Marîd said. He wished they had never joined the caravan. “We can’t leave now. They’ll notice.”

 “What do we do?” Ammar seemed more curious than genuinely alarmed.

“I don’t know,” Marîd said, glancing towards the front of the caravan. The dust would conceal them for now, but soon the cloud would part like a player’s cloak and reveal them both. “I’ll think of something. Stay here.”

The Templar grimaced. “Then think quickly.”

Marîd trotted down the line, searching for some way to conceal themselves. The merchants pocketed their valuables as they settled down to wait. He paused by a pair of women stuffing silks into a trunk. Two sets of floor-length robes would hide them both quite effectively, though Marîd doubted he could steal any without causing a scene in the time that remained. He could buy two disguises from the merchants with Malik’s coin, but Assassins were trained to be observant. Marîd’s sword callouses and missing finger would betray him.  

Marîd’s nose twitched as he inhaled an unfamiliar odour. He slowed his mare to a walk and peered over the side of the next cart. Dried meat piled in the bed of the wagon, half-covered by a tattered dust-sheet. A donkey plodded in harness between the shafts. The old man clutching her lead-rope had rolled up his sleeves. His skin was dark as Marîd’s, but a blue cross was tattooed across one ropy forearm.

Marîd nodded at the tattooed cross. “You’re Christian,” he said.

The man shot him a wary glance. “Yes.”

“What’s that?” Marîd asked, pointing at the meat.

The old man scowled. “It’s not forbidden,” he muttered.

“Don’t worry,” said Marîd. “I’m no believer.”

Islam prohibited the eating of pork. Only Christians relished the meat. Sheep and cattle were transported on the hoof, but pigs were troublesome, noisy, and difficult to control. Their meat was slaughtered and salted and dried before being transported between Frankish towns and sold to whoever wanted to eat it.

The old man’s scowl deepened until it seemed carved into his face. “Then what do you want?”

It took Marîd a few moments to explain his plan, though the old man’s perception increased quickly as soon as he understood that Marîd wanted to give him money. Marîd handed him some coin from the purse he’d taken from Malik and went to fetch Ammar, hoping the old man would still be there when he returned.

A few moments later Marîd crouched under the shade of the dust-sheet on the back of the old man’s cart. Salt stung his eyes and the smell of dried pork filled his nostrils. Marîd sweated. He’d paid the Christian more than the entire cart was worth, but he still didn’t trust the old man. The cart inched along at an amble.  Marîd wrapped his arms around his knees and covered his feet with strips of dried meat. Ammar followed behind on his grey, leading Marîd’s chestnut mare.

He heard voices around the cart. “What’s that stink, old man? What are you selling?”

“Pork,” the old Christian said sullenly as Marîd’s heart clenched in his chest. “Want to see?”

There was a pause. Marîd spent the time trying not to breathe. The strips of meat clung to his robe like dead men’s fingers.

“No need,” said someone who sounded like he was trying to breathe through his mouth. “Go on.” 

Marîd exhaled as the cart jolted past. The Assassins weren’t Muslims, but most of them had once followed the Islamic faith and still deemed pork unclean. Altaïr spoke of moving beyond old beliefs, but prejudice died hard.

The sun was high above the horizon by the time Marîd emerged. He nodded gratefully to the old man, loosened his scarf from his face and immediately choked on dust. Coughing, he reached Ammar and vaulted onto the chestnut’s saddle.

The Templar wrinkled his nose. “You stink.”

Marîd sniffed his robe. He couldn’t smell anything at all, but hours of concealment had accustomed him to the aroma of dried meat. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Ammar looked sceptical. “Is that what they teach you at Masyaf?”

“To hide in plain sight? Yes.”

“It wasn’t a brilliant disguise. They should have searched harder.”

“Assassins are human,” Marîd said, though he had to stop himself from saying ‘we’. He frowned, wondering who had failed to discover him and what Malik would say when they returned to Masyaf empty-handed. It was still another half-day’s ride to Tartus. Perhaps he could draw the Templar out along the way.

Ammar must have seen him frown, “What troubles you?”

“Nothing.” Marîd said automatically, then thought better of it. “Look, Tartus is a port. We’re not staying there, are we? Where are we going?”

The Templar’s mouth tightened. “I told you we’d speak more later,”

“It _is_ later,” Marîd pointed out. “Is this some Templar trick? You dole out information piece by piece, then refuse to tell me more? I feel like I’m following a trail of crumbs into a trap.”

Ammar grimaced. “Forgive me. We’ve grown cautious these last few years and I’m sure you can understand why. We’ll spend the day in Tartus, then embark for Venice and join the fight for Constantinople. The Assassins diverted the Crusader ships from this land with wiles and trickery. Now they hope to spread Assassin ideology to the Byzantines. We can’t let that happen.”

Marîd, who had a fair idea how -and why-the Assassins had diverted the Crusader fleet from Syria’s shores, nodded.  “That sounds a worthwhile fight.”

They rode in silence for a while, until Marîd decided to attempt to uncover more information. “Why did you become a Templar?”

Ammar reined in his horse and shot a glance at Marîd. “Why did _you_? “How does an Assassin from Masyaf come to believe Templar ideology? Yours is a close-knit-sect. I’ve read your letters. You betrayed everything your brotherhood stands for. Why?”

Marîd twisted the mare’s reins between his fingers as he wondered how much he could safely reveal.

“The Order will ask you this and more,” Ammar said, mistaking Marîd’s hesitation for true reticence. “They’ll say that men who betrayed once can betray again.”

Marîd took refuge in the truth. “I was brought up in the south. I joined the Templars as a child. My uncle travelled the caravan routes, and I crossed deserts with him. I saw much suffering there. War. Slavery. Children torn from their parents. Babies abandoned to die. There was an imam who travelled with us for a while-he was a Templar. I told him that someone should stop it, and he agreed. He told me human nature was too sinful to be left unchecked and taught me Templar beliefs in secret. As I grew up, we moved away, and I forgot his teachings. Eventually I came to Syria.”

“And then you travelled to Masyaf,” Ammar said.

Marîd nodded. “At first I found Assassin teachings very like the Templars’. The Assassins question everything, but they don’t like to be tested on their philosophy. Later I recognized the irony inherent in their Creed.”

The Templar cocked his head.  “What irony?”

Marîd had heard Malik and Altaïr argue the Creed often enough. He held the mare’s reins in one hand and ticked the arguments off on his fingers. “Three reasons. The Assassins promote peace, but murder is their method. They say they practice free will, but they follow a master and do what he says without question. They preach against blind faith but practice it themselves.”

“Interesting,” Ammar agreed.

Marîd shrugged. “The Assassins preach utopia through tolerance and mutual understanding, but that goes against all what I’ve seen of human nature. It’s not possible. How can we have peace without order? It’s meaningless.”

“What’s meaningless?”

“Death without purpose. Life without worth or meaning.”

Ammar smiled. “Many Templars would agree. Every man speaks of peace, but few want the responsibility of acting to achieve it.” He gestured to the herds following the caravan. “Most men are sheep, quick to fall in line as soon as someone else takes charge.”

Marîd nodded. Parts of the Templar’s argument appealed to him. Some of their philosophies were not so different from the Assassins, but their methods couldn’t have been more different. The Assassins sought to educate. The Templars took control. Ammar spoke of humanity with contempt. Marîd had heard Malik talk of the townsfolk with exasperation, frustration, admiration, and, occasionally, anger, but his mentor had never once suggested that they weren’t worthy of their own thoughts.

Marîd thought of one of Malik’s favourite sayings. _If our choices had been different, we’d all have led different lives._

He guessed he should be glad that the Templar’s ideology troubled him. He’d have more cause for concern if it didn’t.

The rest of the journey went without incident. The city like Safita, was under Crusader control. Crosses topped the towers in place of the crescent moons of minarets, and banners flew from the battlements above the sunset-coloured stone of the cathedral. Marîd’s stomach twisted in anticipation. He’d visited Tartus a few times during his training and knew the port well, though not as well as nearby Safita.

They left the horses outside the gates and entered the city under the watchful gaze of the Crusader guards. Once they had cleared the narrow gatehouse the streets opened into a wide market square where Ammar drew Marîd beneath the shadow of an awning. “You’ll have to wait,” he said without preamble. “I need to go and speak with the Order. Tell them you’ve arrived.”

Marîd looked around. They stood between a snake-charmer who dozed between his wicker baskets, and a water-seller wearing a wide-brimmed hat who noisily extolled the virtues of his wares. “Shall I wait here?”

Ammar smiled. “I’ll be a while. Go and bathe. You still stink of pigs.”

“Where shall I meet you?”

“Back here. Midday. There’s no morning prayer here, but the Christians chime their bells to mark the hours.”

“I’ll see you then,” Marîd said, and left. He’d meant to visit a bath-house as Ammar had suggested, but on his way to the closest hammam he knew that he was being followed. When he slowed his steps deliberately the man behind him slowed also. When he paused to check merchandise at a stall, the feet behind him stopped. Marîd didn’t glance over his shoulder, and he avoided any suspicious movements. If the person following him knew he was discovered, he might drop back, or disengage entirely, only to be replaced by a person who might be more difficult to track. The discovery didn’t particularly worry Marîd. He was an Assassin, after all.

Marîd took a meandering route in the direction of the baths. When he reached the city’s cathedral, he circled the building and headed to the north. Three streets away, amongst a jumble of small houses, he found a feature that he recognized, a narrow entrance that led to a flight of narrow stone steps descending into the earth.

Marîd climbed down. The staircase was cramped, with barely room for Marîd’s slim shoulders. Pools of water covered the floor and made the stones treacherously slippery underfoot. Marîd paused on the second flight. He listened to the footsteps behind him hesitate, then follow as soon as he rounded the first corner. At the base of the stairs the corridor opened out into a massive underground chamber that could have held half of Masyaf castle. Stone columns supported the ceiling, reflected like a forest in the still water. Carp circled beneath the surface.

The underground chamber had once been a cistern, providing fresh water for the people of Tartus. In modern times the cisterns had largely been supplanted by _qanats_ and deep wells. The local women still used the cistern for water. The Assassins used it for climbing practice. The pillars provided technical routes, and the water made for a soft landing.

Marîd circled a pillar before his pursuer turned the staircase’s last corner. He pressed his back against the stone and tensed his wrist, readying his hidden blade. The footsteps approached cautiously. Marîd strained his ears as his pursuer approached, recognizing the tread of soft-soled boots, not sandals. No limp. The tread was neither heavy nor especially light.

When his stalker was close enough Marîd readied his hidden blade and leapt out. He shoved his pursuer back against the closest pillar and raised his knife to his stalker’s throat. The cistern’s reflected light was dim. At first, the only detail he could make out was that his pursuer was a man.

“Explain,” ordered a familiar voice. Above his blade, Marîd saw eyes narrowed in a scowl instead of widened in surprise.

Marîd swore and lowered the knife. “That’s…going to be difficult.”

Malik scowled. “Then I’ll help. What do you think you’re doing? The Brotherhood’s after your head. Most people are wondering if we executed the wrong man. They’re saying Tazim wasn’t a traitor. That it was you all the time.”

Marîd’s stomach lurched. “Do you believe that?”

Malik shot him a withering glare. “Don’t be stupid.”

Marîd swallowed. “It began when I brought Tazim to the gallows. He begged me to spare his life. Told me of a secret meeting in exchange for mercy.”

“And yet you delivered him to execution,” Malik’s voice was desert-dry.  

“That wasn’t my choice to make. I watched him die and thought about what he’d said. You mentioned trouble in Masyaf. I thought I could help.”

“You didn’t,” Malik snapped.

Marîd shifted from foot to foot. Something splashed in the darkness. “I know. It was supposed to be a meeting! And then we left Safita, and Hamza found me-” He broke off. “How is Hamza?”

“Alive,” Malik said.

“Good,” Marîd said with relief. Absences could be explained, but he doubted the Assassins would be quick to welcome him back into the fold if he’d killed a member of the Brotherhood. “I’m sorry. I wish I didn’t have to do it, but he nearly called me by my name in front of the Templar. I had to act.”

Malik nodded slightly. He leaned closer, sniffing. “What’s that smell?”

“It’s me,” Marîd confessed. “I hid from the checkpoint in a load of smoked pork. I was on my way to bathe when I noticed you following me.”

“Good plan,” Malik said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“It worked.”

Malik glanced back at the cistern entrance. “It worked because I let it. The Assassins are searching for you.” He reached into his robe and brought out a small slip of paper.  Marîd unfolded the note. The image inside, carefully painted on paper thin enough to be rolled into a scroll and attached to a pigeon’s leg, was of his face. Marîd didn’t think it a particularly good likeness.

Malik indicated the note. “Looks just like you,” he said.

“There’s no name.”

“No,” Malik said. He took the note back from Marîd and flicked it into the water, where the sound of splashing indicated that the cistern’s hungry carp had eagerly devoured the paper. “The people this was meant for can’t read. The Brotherhood wants you back, Marîd. You’re going to have to give me a very good reason to prevent me from turning you in. What will you do now?””

Marîd didn’t even have to think. “I’ll go along with it, of course. I’ve already proven my credentials to the Templars. I’ve come too far to go back now. The Brotherhood will change their mind once I start providing them with information. We could put an end to the Templars, Malik! For once and all!”

“Don’t mistake this for a game,” Malik snapped. “They’ll kill you if they catch you.”

“Then I won’t let them catch me!”

Malik’s mouth twisted. “It’s not always that easy. Do you think that every captured soldier planned to end his life that way?”

“Stop trying to protect me! I’m not your son.”

Malik’s black eyes narrowed. “We both know that,” he said quietly. “Are you sure about this?”

 “You can’t stop me,” said Marîd.

Malik’s scowl deepened. “Are you sure?”

They stared each other down in the gloomy darkness. Water dripped somewhere in the cistern. Shadows sharp as knives hinted at the possibility of violence. Marîd was surprised to find himself looking down upon Malik. It had been a long time since he’d faced his mentor without a desk between them. Malik had never been tall, but he always seemed it.

What are you going to do?” Marîd asked after what seemed like an eternity.

“Do?” Malik leaned back against the pillar and sighed. “I’m going to help, of course.”

“What about the other Assassins?”

“I’ll think of something. A secret mission, perhaps. All I know is that you haven’t got a chance of fooling the Templars without me.”

“I’m doing well so far,” Marîd said, pride stung.

Malik raised an eyebrow. “Really? How much do you know about Tazim’s letters to the Templars? Did they have time to question you on the way from Safita? It must have been a busy ride.”

“I know there were three letters,” Marîd said, brightening. “One in winter. The second in spring. The third was sent recently, to set up the meeting.”

“So, you know when he sent them. What did he say?”

“I don’t know,” Marîd admitted.

Malik reached into his black robe and pulled out a scroll of paper. He handed the paper to Marîd. “I have copies. You must know them by heart before the Templars question you.  How much time do you have?”

“I’m meeting Ammar at midday.”

“That’s not much time. You should read fast.”

“It’s lucky for me I had a good teacher.”

Malik wasn’t mollified, “One last thing.”

“What?”

The next time you decide to impersonate somebody, make it somebody who actually looks like you.”

Marîd grimaced as he examined the papers. A sentence caught his eyes; details of the garrison at Masyaf. He read on, discovering mountain routes, guard routines, and more. He thrust the papers back at Malik, aghast. “The Templars can’t know this.”

“They already do,” Malik said, “This way we know what they know.” He handed back the papers to Marîd. “Better start reading,” he said. “Good luck.”

He pushed off from the pillar and vanished into the darkness. The only sound was dripping water, with the odd splash as hungry carp broke the lake’s surface. Marîd watched for movement at the tunnel’s mouth but saw nothing. Eventually he picked up the paper and began to read. As he committed each page to memory, he tore the paper into scraps and dropped the pieces one by one into the waiting mouths below.

He made it to the market at a run and followed Ammar to the Templar gathering. What followed was not pleasant, but Marîd knew he must have answered all the Templars’ questions to their satisfaction, for he was still alive at the end of the meeting. By evening, he stood on the docks with Ammar, waiting to take ship to Venice. They were alone together, save for the sailors and the dockhands. Gulls screamed overhead and fought for scraps. The sky was a bright, cheerful blue that belied Marîd’s misgivings.

“So,” Ammar said lightly. “You’re one of us now. All that remains is for you to take our oath.”

“I thought I’d proved myself,” Marîd said lightly. If he had to admit it, he was reluctant to foreswear himself again. The oath was one last loosening of the thread that bound him to the Assassins.

Ammar studied the ships lurching in the water. “Yes,” he said. “Though I admit I had my doubts. But you killed one of your own men. Sold us information for your freedom. You can’t return to the Order.”

“Nor would I want to,” Marîd said.

“Then repeat after me.” Ammar held up his hand. “Uphold the principles of our Order and all for that which we stand. Never share out secrets nor divulge the true nature of our work. Do so till death-no matter what the cost.”

Marîd did so.

Ammar studied Marîd with depthless grey eyes. “You’re one of us now. Our teachings are your new Creed. How do you feel about that?”

“How should I feel?” Marîd retorted. “Glad. May the Father of Understanding guide me.”

“May he guide us both,” Ammar replied.

Marîd turned, stretching, and took a last look at the city. Tartus stretched behind him, full of bustling life. Somewhere, Malik would be watching, but Marîd knew there would be nothing there to see.

 The Templar clapped him on the shoulder. “The tide won’t wait forever. We should board now, eh Tazim?”

Marîd said “Yes,” and went aboard.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Another present fic for my beta reader, who wanted more Marîd.  
> Marîd’s backstory is mostly explained in my fic The Word of God and the Treasures of Wisdom. The caves beneath Masyaf are briefly mentioned in An Assembly of Bones, Malik’s revelation that Marîd used to be a Templar is in The Tale of the Thief, and the reason the Templar’s plans fail in Constantinople is alluded to in Neither Heaven nor Earth.  
> The cistern is heavily inspired by the Yerebatan cistern in Istanbul. The part about the Franks and their body hair comes from the memoirs of Usama ibn Munqidh, a freewheeling and highly entertaining Islamic poet-warrior.


End file.
